L.A. Rotten (17 page)

Ivy is energized as we drive back to the valley. “Andy Sample, the ginger…we nailed his ass!”

“It's not that simple,” I caution her. “Now he knows we know, so that means we've just lost an advantage.”

“Spare me the negativity—please? At least for tonight, can't we both be happy about something at the same time?”

I take my eyes off the road to look at her for a long second, and then I too crack. “We fucking got him.” Ivy unbuckles and fairly dives across the car to kiss my cheek ferociously, causing me to swerve into the thankfully empty next lane. For good measure, though, the dickhead behind me leans on his horn. “Jesus Christ!” I mutter.

“Do you want me to give you some road head right now? 'Cause I fucking will!” Ivy grips the crotch of my slacks, her thumb pressing onto my cock.

“No, no, I'm good. I'll rain check that offer, though.” I find myself really laughing for the first time in maybe years, and it feels good.

“So let's just turn the pictures and stuff over to that detective, give him the name, and get on with our lives.” Ivy bounces back into her seat and puts her feet up on the dashboard. “No way will he fuck with us now.”

It is not the time to tell her that I have no intention of handing A. Guy to Detective Stack on a silver platter. Neither of them deserves to get off that easy.

We end up back at Ivy's place, where we screw like mad—but only after I solemnly swear not to bail on her in the morning. I figure Harold won't mind that I'm a little late, if it's for a good cause.

My boss calls the next morning before 10 a.m., not giving me the chance to come in late. “We have call,” Harold says enthusiastically by way of introduction. I'm not awake yet, but I assure him I'll be in. I guess the curse was a short-lived one.

“You said you'd let me make you breakfast,” Ivy says, awake as well and staring wounded at me from the crook of my arm.

“I gotta go,” I say, shrugging with my free arm, and slide out from the bed.

“Are we ever going to have a meal together?”

“Who cares? I've got work.”

“Can I at least make you a bagel—wait, never mind, I don't have any bagels. How 'bout I pour you some Cheerios in a coffee mug?”

“Tell you what,” I sigh, sliding on my slacks. “Come by my place tonight after you get off work. You can cook me dinner.”

“Oh, can I? I bet you don't even have any pans or anything.”

“That's true. But that's my offer. Take it or leave it.”

“You're lucky I like you.”

I laugh as I walk out, leaving her in bed. The laugh is a fake one, though—I'm still not sure how I got caught up in this domesticated shit.

So you're back at it
, I think, grim, heading out on the 118 toward Ventura. My service call is for the Offramp Inn out there, room 236, natch. According to the clerk who called it in, someone did some bad, bad things in that room.
Just what I need
. In traffic, it takes two hours to get out to the little coastal city to the northwest of everything Los Angeles–related, and when I flip the knob, the air conditioning in the truck produces only a weak flapping noise from deep inside the engine and expels a brief, dying gasp of ventilation. Mercifully, it's only 92 degrees, but the humidity is up and I can feel the back of my polo shirt soak in the sweat. The smart move would've been to wait for the morning rush to dwindle before attempting my drive, but Harold was enthusiastic about the call to the point of being grating. Even with traffic and no AC, though, it beats his silly notion of going business-to-business, handing out brochures. I can imagine the looks I'd get walking into convenience stores and gas stations, only to ask the manager if their trauma scene sanitation needs were being met. No, for me, dead bodies trump cold-calling every time.

I pull off the highway at Ocean Avenue and glimpse the Offramp Inn sign right away. With an exterior comprised entirely of what looks like redwood, and the west-facing rooms enjoying a hillside Pacific Ocean view, this Offramp looks to be the jewel in the corporation's crown and probably the one they use on their brochures. The temperature has dipped down to a pleasant 80 degrees Fahrenheit, and I almost feel like it will be nice to clean up someone here.
I maybe owe you one, Andy.
…

The dark-skinned girl at the counter smiles when I walk in and set my clipboard on the counter. “Checking in?”

“No, I'm here to work,” I say, pointing to the Trauma-Gone logo on my still-damp shirt.

“What sort of work are you here to do?”

“Biohazard cleanup in room 236. Probably a dead body, I'm guessing?” The lobby is empty of would-be guests at the moment, so I'm not concerned with discretion.

“What dead body?”

“Someone here called in for a cleanup for room 236. Maybe not a dead body then, but some sort of bad mess.”

“Let me check with Rachel,” the girl says, chewing her lip. She picks up a house phone and punches in a three-digit number. Through the wall behind the counter, I hear a phone ring that is cut off abruptly.

“Hi, Rachel…there's a guy here who says someone called in about a mess in one of the rooms….No, he was called in…from a company.” She studies my shirt for a second. “Trauma-Gone…he says it's, like, a dead body or something.”

I pace the lobby, annoyed and hating that I'm being subjected to this one-sided attempted exchange of information. Finally the desk girl puts the phone down. “Rachel says it was probably a prank call.”

When I picture Rachel, I know that she is fat, has glasses, and was promoted from within. “It's not a prank call,” I insist, quickly growing icy. “Let me just check the room out. Two thirty-six.”

The clerk types into her computer and shakes her head, curiously resistant to my demeanor. “No, that room was unoccupied last night.”

“Let's go take a look.”

“I have to—”

“Ask Rachel,” I interrupt. “Go right ahead.”

Once again she dials the number and I hear the phone ring through the wall. This time it drones four long rings before Rachel can be bothered to answer.

“He wants to take a look….No….No, it was unoccupied….Yes, I told him….Okay.” The clerk re-cradles the phone and smiles nervously at me. “Rachel says that there is no point in you going to check the room because no one has reported anything to her about any dead bodies.”

I am back at the desk in an instant, leaning across the counter to yell past the clerk and directly at the wall. “Tell Rachel to get off her ass and come out here.”

The clerk starts to lift the phone for a third time, but Rachel has taken the hint and emerged from a side door behind the counter. True enough, she's a heavy white woman, younger than I anticipated, but bespectacled and surly looking. She sizes me up with a beady little glare and I return the gaze.

“Wha's all this about?” she asks of the clerk as if I'm not standing there, fuming.

“I just drove out from
Los Angeles
,” I interject, putting emphasis on the city, as if it is a special place and particularly noteworthy to the shitheels in this rube-populated little town. “My company got a call from this motel that there is a mess in room 236, and I want to have a look for myself.”

Now Rachel turns her carriage to address me fully. “I tol' ya there idn't no mess in that room.”

“Show me,” I say, staring into little eyeballs compressed by layers of rampant skin. “Show me that room.”

“Fine,” Rachel decides loudly, and her hand flails up in one quick maneuver of resignation. “Julie, give me a maid card. I'll take Mr. Man here mahself.” Julie hands over the card and Rachel makes her way out from behind the desk, walking quickly with tight, little steps. “Tell Hector to shadow me,” Rachel adds on her way out the door, as if she's actually worried I might try to rape her. In my irritation, I forget my clipboard and have to go back for it, but she does not stop her trot out and around the south side of the building.

As I hurry to follow in her wake, willing myself to not notice the large panty line creasing her work slacks, she bypasses the stairwell and makes for an elevator next to the Coke machine.

I want to make an aggressive statement, so I backtrack to the stairs and scale them quickly, two at a time, unwilling to share an enclosed space with this unpleasant behemoth. Besides, I wouldn't want Hector to worry.

The elevator is slow in both directions, and I am down the walkway and standing before room 236 before I hear the sharp little ding that signals Rachel's arrival on the second floor. The closed door to room 236 is facing westward, and the lapping blue ocean spans my vision, but I am no longer in the mood to bask in the tranquility.

The door looks unaffected and there is no coroner's seal stretched between the wood and the jamb, but this means little to me. Whatever Andy's intent is, I'm sure it is for my eyes specifically.

Rachel's footsteps thud up toward me, and I see that my elevator slight had its intended effect. “I'ma call my bosses 'bout this,” she warns as she slides the electronic key into the door lock.

“Darling, do whatever you gotta do, but stay outta my way when I'm working.”

She pushes the door open roughly and it swings in on the darkened room. I step in around the large woman, and the sunlight cutting its way through the thin, drawn shades outlines what appears to be a clean, untouched motel room.

“See?” Rachel snarls from behind me. I ignore her and walk into the bathroom, confused to see that it too is equally pristine. The paper seal is even still wrapped around the toilet lid and the toilet paper roll is a fresh one.

Back out on the veranda, I quickly check the room numbers to the right and left, making sure that I am in fact in front of 236. “I don't understand,” I murmur, but Rachel thinks I'm capitulating to her.

“I tol' ya. I tol' ya. Ain't nobody touch these rooms—I'da knowed it.”

Instead of answering, I turn and keep walking, back toward the stairwell, back toward my work truck, and back out of Ventura. “Hey, whaddya doin'?” Rachel calls after me, refusing to believe I'd just up and leave her without an apology. “Hey, come back here! What company didja say ya worked fer?” At the bottom of the stairwell, I walk past a nervous Mexican in blue coveralls who does nothing to stop me: Hector.

I don't tell Harold about any of it until I am back standing before him in the garage at the Trauma-Gone headquarters. “It early in day,” he assures me, taking it better than I anticipate. “We go out and deliver brochure together. Find business ourselves.”

“I told you, I've already got a lot of things I've got to do today because I didn't do them yesterday. How about I just deal with all the brochures tomorrow? You won't have to do a thing.”

“No. I am being punished for laziness. I not do enough to save business. And this mostly your fault we are in curse. We go together.”

“Why don't we split up? I'll take half, you take half. We'll cover more ground that way.”

“Good, good.” Harold rubs his hands together, no doubt anticipating all the extra ground we will cover by separating. He goes to retrieve his hat and coat despite the temperature easily being in the upper nineties by now, while I divvy the piles of brochures into two equal-ish stacks.

Harold locks the door to the office and heads out toward the south, on foot. In turn, I go north—straight to the trunk of my car, where I dump my stack of brochures. In a way, it's good that Harold didn't just let me deal with all the brochures tomorrow, because then there'd be twice as many in my trunk. At least this way we'll have half a chance of some local business giving us a call.

I unlock the door to the office and move to the computer, where I pull up a web browser and key in “Andy Sample.” Thousands of page results pop onto my screen within a few seconds, including a glossy, black-and-white, professional headshot of a grinning Andrew Sample.

“Hello, fucker,” I say aloud as I scroll the page results and click on the link for andysample.com.

“Hello…Tom,” a voice from across the room says simply, shocking me out of my scrutiny. I tilt my gaze up sharply and, in the moment, am completely at a loss for words.

“Mrs. Kelly,” I finally get out, genuinely startled to see the petite woman, who, dressed all in black, looks especially aged.

“Hank's funeral was today,” she says, advancing fully into the room so the door plunks closed behind her. She carries a large, dark clutch purse made of what looks to be alligator skin in her wrinkled hands, supporting it in front of her.

“I…see,” I say, still shocked, and yet unwilling to offer my condolences in regard to the big bastard.

She takes note of my indecisiveness, but doesn't comment on it; instead, she approaches the desk, and I, in my seat, can only gape upward at her. “I didn't come here to quarrel with you, I only came to give you this.” She probes one veiny hand into the depths of the purse, and I mostly expect her to come out with a gun, but in the end, it is only a letter. It's in an envelope made out to Trauma-Gone, care of Tom Tanner, and it includes postage, but it isn't sealed.

“I went back and forth in my mind on whether to mail it or give it to you in person. At the mailbox, I decided that I would never live with myself if I didn't come here in person. I'd like you to read the letter—aloud if you could. I want to hear my words in your voice, if that's all right with you.”

Unable to string anything cogent together that I might say to deny this woman the act, I instead find myself pulling out and unfolding the handwritten letter, written on heavy bond paper.

“Mr. Tanner,

“Today, I will bury the man I have loved and faithfully obeyed for the last thirty-six years in an earthen grave beside my daughter. There is not another available plot anywhere nearby as we did not expect to need one space for our Holly. I will instead be cremated when the Lord decides to bring me home. In the meantime, I am going to live with my sister in St. Louis. There is nothing for me in California any longer.

“I am writing you this because I have thought about you often over the years, and what it is that you must have endured. I find myself thinking about the pain that this whole terrible situation has brought everyone, and I don't wish it on another soul. I cannot say anything with certainty about your role in my Hank's death, only that you did not pull the trigger, and for that, I thank you. Hank was a much stronger person than I am, he was my rock, and now that he is gone, I find it easier to drift away rather than become my own rock.

“I will always hate you for what you did to my family, but, also, I forgive you. I don't know why Jesus put our lives on this collision course, but He is my Lord, and I trust in Him. I know that you are not a religious man, but I hope that one day you learn to trust in His wisdom as well, for through Him hopefully you will be able to find peace within yourself.

“Your life is far from complete, Tom, and I know that there is the capacity for a great amount of good in you and I hope that you are able to devote the remaining days of your life in pursuit of this goodness. I will think of you often and keep you in my prayers.

“In Jesus' love,

Julie Kelly”

I set the letter down on the desk when I finish, and look up to see Mrs. Kelly crying into her right hand. I stand and wish I had a tissue to offer. “Oh, pardon me,” she says, attempting to smile through the emotion. “I'm not so good at this sort of thing.”

“Me neither.”

“I've spent so much time hating you,” she sniffs, “I forgot that you might be a person too.”

“I'm not good at being a person,” I admit. “But I'm working on being better.”

We stare at each other for a moment, the nervousness between us palpable. “I feel like I should give you a hug or something…”

“Don't,” I say, but without ferocity.

“Okay,” Mrs. Kelly says, her tear-slicked mascara sliding down into the cracks of skin beneath her eyes. “I'm going to go now.”

“Be careful out there.”

“You too, Mr. Tanner—Tom.”

I return to the business side of the desk, and keep standing until she is back outside and out of my life.

When the front door to the office closes, I set her letter on the desk and stare at it, unable to look away and yet I know I must.
I can't deal with this now
.
Really, there is still too much to be done.
I've got to concentrate on the living
. I will myself to crumple her letter into a tight little ball and drop it into the trashcan beside me.

Back before the computer, I punch the “up” arrow cursor on the keyboard, returning me to Andy's webpage. “Now let's see about you, Mr. Sample.”

Andy's website is a basic one—a short bio, detailing how he was always the kid who acted out in class, how he knew he wasn't meant for a nine-to-five job…blah, blah, blah…available for corporate events and et cetera. There is also a larger, higher-resolution image of his headshot, which I click on to study. His eyes are earnest and there's a discomfort to them, as if he hasn't yet found his place in the world. If not for the orangish-red hair and fair skin, with his prominent cheekbones and squared jaw, he'd be handsome. At least he doesn't have freckles.

Below his headshot, Andy has two video clips, each a frozen still image of him onstage, performing. I click on the first one, curious as to just how funny he could possibly be.

“Good evening, ladies…gentlemen…Are there any child molesters in the audience tonight?” A silence falls over the crowd, and not even hecklers dare to make a peep; Andy, however, continues on, unfazed. “You'd be amazed how often that works, especially in Torrance.” That gets the roar of laughter, and Andy, mic in hand, grins like a skeleton. “You can't even call the police on child molesters in Torrance, because most of the time, the police
are
the child molesters. If you look like you're under thirty, don't get popped in Torrance, because when they put those cuffs on you, you'll say, ‘Why do these handcuffs have fur on them?' And they'll just start whistling that song from
Deliverance
. It doesn't help me that I've got red hair either, cuz child molesters
love
red hair. Us redheads are like winning lotto tickets to perverts. I remember, when I got old enough, I asked my dad why he and Mom didn't have red hair. And my dad said, ‘Boy, the people we stole you from
did
have red hair. Now get back in your cage.' That explains, I guess, why every year, for my birthday, they gave me muscle relaxers and baby oil….”

I cut the performance at this point, wondering how on earth he's chosen this bit for his portfolio. No way could it possibly be helping his career—especially with the corporate crowd. Even the laughter from the crowd wasn't particularly on board with the material. They'd laughed heartily at first, but by the point he'd joked about his parents being kidnapping child rapists, the crowd laughs were down to awkwardly polite titters. Incredulous, I click on his other clip just to see where he can go from there. “Homeless people. There's too goddamn many of them. Am I right?” Hoots of agreement sound from this audience. In the clip, Andy paces the stage nervously, and the cameraman has to try and keep up with him. “I don't give money to homeless people anymore, because it doesn't help them, it just makes them more miserable. Why should I pay for them to have a motel room for the night? They'll just know what they're missing. It would be like you or I getting a free ride on a yacht! It just makes you want a yacht, and then you feel like a fucking loser because you can't afford one, you know? Now when I see a homeless person, I kick them in the teeth. You know why? Because after a kick in the teeth, they say, ‘I never realized how good I had it before.' ”

I stop this clip too. How someone never stumbled across the notion that Andy Sample might be a serial killer is beyond me. Discretion is not exactly his strong suit anyway, but the darkness that oozes from him onstage, plus the fact that he considers those two clips to be “strong material,” gives me the distinct impression that everything he's shown thus far is nothing compared with what is going on in his head.

I drive out to Duane's after locking the office back up. As far as Harold will know, I've spent the afternoon handing out the brochures to interested shopkeepers instead of throwing the lot of them into an Arby's dumpster, which is where they end up. My parole officer's place in Woodland Hills is in a small, two-story apartment building that is somehow in worse shape than mine. Up on the second floor, in the back corner of the building, his one-bedroom flat looks out over the loading dock of a closed-down Kmart. Duane's in the kitchen, and bellows out a hearty “Come in” when I knock.

The apartment bleeds the rich, garlicky aroma of Italian food cooking as I walk in, and I realize his intention is that I am going to stay for dinner. I'm not. Further, my suspicion that he is a bachelor is immediately confirmed upon entry. What furniture the man has does not match, and a large fabric Italian flag is the focal point of his living room wall. Elsewhere around the room, printed photographs of Duane hamming it up with other white LAPD officers are not in frames, but rather pushpinned to the wall as if they are entomology specimens. A large stack of VHS tapes stand waist high beside a small television set on a collapsible TV tray. It is sad to enter this home that is only a lifelong collection of memories arranged haphazardly about the place; all are items selected likely for their emotional and spiritual value, but to the casual observer just seem like a load of fucking junk. I see the innards of houses often in my work, the secret world of the newly dead, and it is mostly always sad. Of course, my place has nothing of any kind, so what does that say about me?

“I'm coming, I'm coming,” Duane announces, and there is the sound of a large pot being set aside before my PO emerges from his kitchen nook in a sauce-stained wife-beater to greet me. By way of acknowledgment, I wordlessly extend the collective of letters and photos, but he takes them and drops them on an aging recliner. “Glad you found it okay,” he says with a grin, overly enthusiastic. “Let me give you the tour.”

I already know too much about the man, and what I know, I don't particularly care for, but I allow myself to be led about the narrow domicile with a look of resigned politeness. I'm stuck with him until he decides otherwise.

His tour wholly seems to be about showing me his collection of guns and daggers, which have been stashed throughout the rooms, never more than an arm's reach from wherever he might be standing. I suspect this is in preparation for a coming “race war,” a suspicion Duane confirms while, without irony, he shows me his Polish version of an AK-47. “One day,” he says, sliding back the bolt action to reveal a bullet is indeed in the chamber, “the elements of the streets are going to rise up in an attempt to claim what they think is theirs. Trust me, it's coming. This apartment is going to be ground zero for the resistance, God willing that that day comes while I'm still on this earth.” The more he shows of his arsenal, though, the more I wonder how many women have come back here only to abandon all hope after being given the same tour.

“How's your assignment going? You got some new information for me?” he asks when we return to the living room, and he gestures for me to take a seat opposite him. I sit, precariously balanced on the lip of his sofa, hopefully indicating my unwillingness to get comfortable and stay long. I have played versions of this moment over in my mind since learning the identity of Andy Sample, and not once do any of those speculative conversations end with me handing over a single iota of useful information. And yet, somehow in those speculations, it was enough to keep me out of prison.

“I'm close,” I assure Duane, leveling my gaze to meet his.

“Meaning?”

“He wants to meet. Soon.”

“You know his name?”

“He calls himself A. Guy. As in capital ‘A,' period, capital ‘G' ‘Guy.' ”

“A. Guy? What is he, a comedian?”

I shrug.

“Where does he want to meet?”

“I don't know; he's going to call me.”

Duane ponders this for a bit. “I want you to call me the second after he calls you,” he finally decides. “You will tell me the when and the where of the meeting. I'll scope this turkey out myself.”

“I'll try,” I volley back.

“You'll do better than that.”

“What if he decides to pick me up? And he tells me to leave my cell phone at home?”

“I thought about that…give me one second.” Duane disappears back into his spare bedroom and emerges moments later with a chrome-colored pistol, which he extends to me. “You make sure you always have the upper hand.”

I decline it. “I'm not a gun guy.”

“You just became one. Go ahead, take it; it's unregistered.”

“All the more reason for me not to. I'm a felon, I can't be caught with a firearm, much less an unregistered one.”

“Take the fucking gun. I can't have you dying. Goddamnit, you might need it.”

Deciding, I take the weapon. “Is it loaded?”

“All my weapons are hot.”

I take “hot” to be police lingo for “Yes, it's loaded.” “How do I take the safety off?”

“See that little button on the side? Just above the trigger? Push it.”

It's just like the rifles I fired in Scouts after all
. I do as I'm told, and, standing, I turn to point the weapon at my parole officer.

“Don't point it at me, numbnuts. That weapon's hot!”

“You said that already. Now put your hands up real slow.”

“The fuck is this?” he tries, genuine confusion formed across his face.

“No, I mean it, Duane.”

“Tommy, this is my home…”

“What's that got to do with anything?”

He puts his hands up slowly, maybe figuring out that I am serious. “I trusted you.”